St Michael, Lafferton, give notice that the Cathedral Close

and the area of Cathedral Lane, Old Lane and St Michael's

Walk will be closed to the public and to through traffic

between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m. on Saturday 10 November.

Diversions will be clearly marked. The Cathedral Close will

remain accessible to residents.

Which was filed under "Primary."

He pressed Save, closed the files. Changed the password, as usual every evening.

Tonight's was "woodcock."

Time scale, detailed plan, schedules, routes-were in a second box file, marked "Tax Receipts', kept in the wooden chest on which the television stood.

The chest was locked. The key was in the freezer buried in a full tub of margarine. If it took five minutes to get at it that didn't worry him. Precautions. Plans. Schedules. A routine.

That way there was less chance of anything going wrong.

Thirty-seven.

Simon left his office and ran.

He was stopping for nothing and for no one. He had been on duty for fourteen hours. Bethan Doyle's former partner had been questioned and was in the clear. Whiteside had taken it upon himself to drive him to see his baby son. Craig Drew had been driven back to his parents' house by Louise Kelly. Simon had never been up against so many blanks. He felt as if he was wading through clouds. The one thing he could get his teeth into was the job of giving the Jug Fair the highest police profile it had ever received. The Chief was certain the fair would draw the gunman. "Nothing," Paula Devenish had said, "and I mean nothing, can be allowed to happen."

Simon got into his car and dialled from his mobile.

"This is the Deerbon residence, who is speaking please?"

"Hi, Sam."

"Oh."

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. Only Dad's had an operation. On his brain. So I'm not really OK."

"I'm coming over now, I'm just leaving the station. Will you tell-"

"Mummy's upstairs with Felix and she's crying a lot. Grandpa and Judith were here but they've gone to the hospital. Hannah's on a sleepover. So there isn't anyone."

"Ten minutes, Sam."

"In your own car?"

"Yes."

"Oh. No siren."

"No. But I'll screech the tyres round the corners."

"Cool." Sam put the phone down.

He was at the door as Simon drew up. He looked suddenly older; his legs were longer, his face was changing, the baby softness firming and sharpening. His resemblance to Chris was clearer. Not long ago he would have raced to Simon, arms outstretched, ready to be lifted up and swung round. Now, he waited, his face serious.

"Hi, Sam."

"Mum's still upstairs. How's the shooting investigation coming along?"

"We'll get there."

They went inside.

"I saw you on the telly. How old do I have to be to come and do work experience with CID?"

"Sixteen."

"That's not fair."

Simon heard Cat's footsteps on the stairs. "Many things aren't fair," he said.

Sam had the new Alex Rider book but he was reluctant to be left, asking anxious questions about Chris, chattering pointlessly about whether dogs could see in the dark and if his brother would grow up to get better marks than he had in maths. His eyes moved between Simon and Cat, looking for reassurance. They sat with him, talking, answering. In the end, he had simply opened the book, turned away from them and said, "I'm going to read now."

Felix was asleep, face down on the pillow, knees drawn up as if he were about to crawl away. Simon laughed.

"Yes," Cat said. "They keep me going. Sam is so sharp, he susses too much."

"But you have told them?"

"As much as they need to know. Which is probably all there is to tell."

Simon went to the fridge and found a bottle of white wine.

"No," Cat said, "I'm not. Not just now."

He put the bottle back and went to the kettle. "They can't take everything but I can, you know," he said.

Cat leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She looks older, Simon thought, like Sam. Her face has changed, too. Something like this happens and we slip down a rung or two and we can never go back. He wanted to draw her.

"Peppermint tea," she said. "It's in the blue jar."

"How did the operation go?"

"They took quite a lot of the tumour out, but of course they can never get it all-too dangerous. They did the biopsy. It's a grade-three astrocytoma. They'll give him a course of radiotherapy."

"Which will help?"

Cat looked at him as he handed her the tea. "For a while."

He sat next to her. There wasn't anything to say. He couldn't produce platitudes.

"You're staying off work?"

"Oh yes, I have to. He'll be home in a week and then he'll need me all the time. There isn't much of that. You know, when patients used to tell me they couldn't take in what I'd just told them, I didn't really know what they meant. But I sat there this afternoon listening to the neurosurgeon explaining everything and he was talking Greek. I couldn't understand it. It didn't go in. When I came out of the room I stood in the corridor and repeated what he'd said to me. "Your husband has a grade-three astrocytoma, I have removed what I could. That will relieve the pressure for a time and we'll give him ten days of radiotherapy. It will buy him time. But this is only palliative, you understand." I actually said all that to myself aloud. A couple of people went by me and ..."

Cat set her cup down carefully on the table and started to cry.

Cat. Crying. Simon remembered when she had cried after falling off a horse and breaking her arm, and at the funerals-their mother's, Martha's. But they had not been tears like this, not tears fetched up from somewhere he could not reach, tears of despair and pain and desolation. He sat, his hand on her back as she leaned forward sobbing into her cupped hands.

Chris would die. Cat would stay here, bring up the children, resume her job eventually. The world would go on turning. Nothing would change.

Everything would change. Chris. He loved his brother-in-law, had always got on easily with him, had taken his presence for granted over thirteen years. Chris was not a complex man. He liked his life, loved his family, did his job, could be contrary. An ordinary man. And now, an ordinary man with something eating into his brain. Lying in hospital tonight after his head had been sawn open.

The ground seemed to shelve away in front of Simon, exposing a crater.

Thirty-eight.

She'd sounded odd. Not herself. But he hadn't been able to put a finger on it.

"Can we go another night?" she had said.

"What's wrong? You not well?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I'm not ill, just a bit-I'd rather go another night. Or just have a drink."

"But I've booked."

She had sighed. There had been a silence.

"Come on, do you good, you'll feel better for it."

"Where is it anyway?"

"Somewhere you'll like."

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

Silence. A long silence. He hadn't been able to make it out.

"Alison?"

"Yes, yes, right. I'm sorry. Fine, it's fine, of course, we'll go."

"You sure?"

"I just said."

"I want you to like it. I want you to enjoy yourself, it's special."

"I will. Sorry. What time do you want to go?"

"Pick you up at seven."

"As early as that?"

"There's things to look at, then we can have a drink and then we'll eat."